


Bite Me

by wolfwithpanthereyes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Banter, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwithpanthereyes/pseuds/wolfwithpanthereyes
Summary: A snapshot of Napoleon and Illya during a zombie apocalypse.





	Bite Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written a few years ago for the TMFU kinkmeme.

“It’s not a bite.”

“Shut up.”

It was hard to make out the pale shade of Illya’s skin underneath the blood covering his thigh. Napoleon’s hands were coated in it, fingers slipping as he attempted to shove unwilling thread through an unwilling needle. 

“Not a bite,” Illya insisted again, wasting his breath as usual. He was slumped against the wall of the store they had taken shelter in, limbs askew with the calf of his injured leg propped on Napoleon’s lap, and Napoleon was beginning to worry about the greyish tinge his partner’s face was gaining. 

The wound itself was not as bad as Napoleon had been expecting, considering how badly Illya had been limping. There was a terrible raggedness to it and the blood swelling around it had turned dark, but it looked less like a chunk had been bitten out and more like someone with a very unsteady hand had taken a knife to it. Definitely not the work of the undead, thank goodness. Nevertheless, it needed stitches. 

“Ha!” Napoleon finally managed to slide the thread home. “Got it. Peril, I want you to take a deep swallow.”

Illya grabbed the bottle of vodka resting beside them and obediently gulped. It was a small miracle that this store was still stocked enough to supply them with the necessary tools for this - but that’s why Illya had torn his leg in the first place, wasn’t it? There were too many undeads roaming around here for anyone else to dare risk it. Napoleon had set his eye on it the moment he heard how unwilling any of the other survivors were to come near this town. He had figured if anyone could get past the undead, it would be two skilled secret agents. 

Unfortunately, he had underestimated exactly _how_ many there were in this town.

Napoleon laid the threaded needle down and reached for the other bottle of vodka they had swiped from the shelves, swearing under his breath as his fingers slipped continuously on the cap. He wiped them on his shirt and tried again. 

This time, it opened.

Illya exhaled loudly as he put down his own bottle. In the light filtering down through the skylights (thank the Lord this store had those and not just electric lighting), Napoleon could see the bottle was already nearing emptiness. “Ready when you are, Cowboy.”

“Right.” Napoleon nodded, attempting a grin to show Illya that he was confident in his own doctoring abilities. Or maybe it was to try and steady his own nerves; Napoleon had seen injuries in his field, of course he had, and especially back on the German front, but he never usually dealt with such injuries himself. That was a job for trained medical personal.

He braced himself, told Illya to brace himself too, and splashed vodka liberally across Illya’s thigh. 

Illya’s entire body jerked, a whimper escaping past his lips before he slammed his head back against the wall once, twice. 

“Your fault for catching it on that fence,” Napoleon chided him, even as he stared at the blood washing away from the gash to pool underneath Illya’s thigh. Napoleon could feel his stomach churning uneasily. “You should be grateful it’s not an undead bite.”

Illya gave a low grunt in reply, still staring towards the ceiling. By the set of his jaw, Napoleon assumed he was biting down on his tongue. Probably for the best, now that the wound was clear enough for Napoleon to fully appreciate how torn the skin was. Peril must be in _agony_.

“It _was_ rather impressive how you kicked out at that one hard enough to floor it, though.” Napoleon wiped his hands on his shirt again, sparing a moment of wistfulness for the days when he could swap his outfit for a fresh one whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to think about how long he had been stuck in these clothes and where the stains on them originated from. “If it had bitten you, it would have been a heroic way to go.”

“Useless, more like.” Illya’s voice was shallow as his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, his consonants harder than they usually were when he spoke English. “Would be pitiful.”

“On the positive side, you as an undead would be near-unstoppable, I suppose.” Napoleon positioned the needle. “I would not mind if you were the one who bit me.”

Illya gave a snort. “Bite you? Even as one of them, I would not have such bad-” 

He stopped talking abruptly as the needle slid into his thigh, another strangled noise escaping him. It had been tougher than Napoleon expected, getting the needle in, but it was a start. The sooner this was over and done with, the better.

“Biting me would be in most excellent taste.” Napoleon said as a distraction more for himself than Illya, once he had completed the first stitch. This would be a longer task than he had anticipated. “Any undead would be lucky to feast upon my succulent flesh.”

Illya laughed; a rough breathless sound that could just as easily have been a grimace. “Not anymore, Cowboy. You have grown thin.”

“Well, spending three months avoiding monsters wanting to put me on their menu will do that to a person.” The talking was helping to ground Napoleon as he focused on his stitching. “It does not mean my flesh is any less desirable.” 

He shoved the needle through a particularly unyielding layer of skin and sensed more than physically felt Illya tense up. 

“They would take one bite,” Illya said slowly, “and discard the remains in disgust.” 

“Oh, come now, Peril!” Napoleon’s grin was genuine this time, an automatic response to their usual banter despite their current circumstances. “They would take one bite and be ravenous.”

“Ravenous for anything else.” Illya sat up a little straighter, his calf shifting in Napoleon’s lap. It made things less comfortable, but Napoleon paused in his work and readjusted the angle without complaining. 

“You can’t exactly talk when you’ve never tasted me,“ he replied after a moment, once he was sure he had the angle right and begun moving the needle again.  
Illya tensed again; the effects of the vodka must be wearing off fast. “Drink.”

“I can assume,” Illya said drily, but he did reach for his bottle and finish off what was left of it.

“You should try before you concrete your assumptions.” Napoleon was vaguely aware that they had lost the initial reason behind their conversation, but as long as they continued talking, the sooner this would be over. 

“You are strange, Cowboy.” They had worked together for long enough now that Napoleon recognised the statement as one of fondness, even if the way Illya delivered it sounded anything but. 

“Just as strange as you are, Peril.” Napoleon had neared the top of the gash. He pushed through the last stitch, giving the thread a gentle tug before bundling it into a messy knot, and leaned back to admire his handiwork. It wasn’t neat by any means, but it would be enough. “There, that should be it.”

“Good.” Illya shifted again, tilting his head forward to stare down at his thigh. There was a pause, and then: “This is terrible.”

“But it’ll get you back on your feet before the undead manage to claw their way in here, and that’s all that matters.” Napoleon lightly patted the shin resting in his lap. “We should probably eat something. I’d suggest we find you pants, too, but unfortunately we went for food over clothing.”

There was a twitch of a smile on Illya’s mouth. “Hand me another vodka instead.”

“That’s a given.” Napoleon gently placed his hands on Illya’s lower leg with the intent of moving it out off himself so he could stand. Illya stopped him before he could get far, leaning forward and grasping Napoleon’s arm to still it. Napoleon glanced up questioningly, and Illya kissed him.

Napoleon had just enough time to think _well, this is new_ before he responded. Illya kissed like he was trying to claim Napoleon for his own, lips forceful despite their driness as his fingers curled firmer into Napoleon’s arm until he was sure it would leave marks. Right now, Napoleon didn’t care; he was all too willing to submit to the experience and become drunk off the taste of Illya’s mouth. When they broke apart, it was with great reluctance, even as Napoleon gasped like a deep-sea diver come up for air.

Despite a fresh flush of colour in his lips, Illya’s face was still pale, hair sticking in untidy clumps across his forehead. It was not the best look for him, and yet it was a sight Napoleon relished in nonetheless. 

“Oh,” Napoleon said, because silver-tongued charmer that he was, he was temporary lost for words.

“There,” Illya said, his voice a little stronger as his eyes gleamed. “I have tasted you and can speak with concrete. You would taste most undesirable to the undead.”

Napoleon stared at the slow grin spreading across Illya’s face, mouth agape. “You… That is…” He caught himself, clearing his throat and meeting Illya’s gaze squarely as he replied: “Well, we both know that is entirely wrong. Otherwise you would not have enjoyed yourself quite so much.”

“I was enjoying your wrongness,” Illya pointed out, but clearly he was bluffing, because he then added “But if you insist on me testing it again…?”

“By all means.” Napoleon caught him in the kiss this time. 

They were trapped in a store in a town full of the undead and this was not the right time or place for indulging in this at all. It was a good thing, then, that Napoleon had never been one to care for proper circumstance.


End file.
